Waiting
by a unique solution
Summary: On that rainy day in Denver, a certain cyborg samurai comes to an unsurprising revelation about Raiden. Revengeance fic, spoilers for R-03. Rated for violence & coarse language.


(A/N: I was really excited to fight Sam and then Monsoon happened. True, it turned out to be one hell of a fight, and in retrospect I am glad the showdown with Sam didn't happen until later. I wrote this right after the battle though, when I was possibly maybe perhaps a little tiny bit upset that Sam had left. It was still decent upon re-reading it now that I've finished the game, so here it is, for your viewing pleasure. Extra sidenote regarding punctuation: the document editor refuses to allow double-hyphens for some reason... My apologies, I will fix it when I can.)

The dark, roiling storm clouds, which once sat innocently on the horizon, seemed to have spread over the entire grey sky. Their turmoil was almost tangible in the air: sparks of white lightning igniting in sharp streaks, a brilliant flood of livid light immediately fading away into nonexistence, and a pause akin to hesitation before the rumbling promise of an encore.

Atop rain-slicked stairs, he stood unmoving, watching with wry amusement as the silver-haired cyborg stumbled through the plaza. Each teetering step he took appeared forced, driven by an unknown motive that lurked just below the uncertainty of his actions. Yet even with his graceless, listless strikes, the guards fell easily to Raiden's blade. There was something to be said for that, Sam thought.

Since their initial meeting in Africa, Samuel had been waiting for the opportunity to clash swords with the hopelessly idealistic Maverick again. It was not like him to take such an interest in anything, so he supposed it was indicative of how dull his life had gotten for him to make such a fuss over an amateur. Still, Sam liked to think he had an eye for potential- and Raiden had the practiced mannerisms of a caged beast.

He had contemplated, briefly, how obsessive he had been in following the other's progress through the city of Denver. It was mostly unnecessary, but he'd tailed Raiden from a distance anyway, arguing with no one in particular that he had had nothing better to do. The show had certainly been worth attending; Samuel could almost taste Raiden's righteous fury as he tore through the streets, and it was with that naive outrage in mind that he had selected his words upon their confrontation.

"Not so black and white now, is it?" Sam drawled, strolling forward with languid steps, a hand casually yet meaningfully hovering above the hilt of his high frequency blade.

"Fuck you," Raiden spat, bristling with anger. For a moment, he looked as if he was about to lash out, and he took a quick step towards the other cyborg, only to lose his balance anticlimactically and fall to his knees. As if already accepting defeat, he did not move to get up, and barely even attempted to conceal his dazed confusion as his carefully constructed walls and excuses came crumbling down around him. Sam held back a chuckle, settling instead for a pitying grin.

From several stories up, a snide voice interrupted the two of them, tauntingly addressing Raiden by his melodramatic nickname. Raiden cast a questioning look at Sam, who merely let an exasperated sigh escape his lips before raising both palms to the air in a halfhearted attempt at a shrug. The setup had been too perfect, and Sam could tell that Raiden had, on some subconscious level, thought so as well.

But fate had dictated that this was not to be their day, so Sam looked on in silence as Monsoon spouted his philosophy of life. The eccentric sai-wielding cyborg was an odd personality, though he was a more pleasant conversationalist than the other two, at least.

There was a subtle evolution of thought as one spoke to the three Winds, the undercurrent of nihilism bringing them together: Killing is who I am. Killing is natural. Killing is human nature. Such were their mantras, and Samuel noted with detached interest that his own philosophy was of a slightly different flavour. For him, bringing death came as easily as the creation of a thought or a dream. It was his talent, and he lived as though he had nothing else; as time passed it became a self-inflicted curse, a numbing poison that dulled the senses that didn't matter, that weren't necessary for survival. The battlefield trenches ran deep through the earth long after every skirmish was over, like wicked scars that hurt even to look at; they were the gruesome chasms that would forever separate him from the rest of the world. Each job he took filled those invisible ravines with a false purpose, and Desperado's contract was no different; it dressed up the act and made it more satisfying in a superficial way, but killing was killing, plain and simple.

He was a killer- that was his job. Yet his identity was not defined by his actions or his thoughts; such a view was self-centered and egotistical. A man's identity, like a soldier's identity, was determined by the ones who would grieve upon receiving the bloodied dogtags in the mail. It seemed almost paradoxical to define identity as having an external cause, but Sam suspected it was merely another ironic truth of the universe. You are no one if you have no one, which meant that killers like him simply had no identity, end of story. It was a little too damn zen, Sundowner had commented brusquely one afternoon, and the two of them sat in silence for the remainder of the jet ride to America.

Samuel brought his attention back to the scene unfolding before him as Monsoon drew his sais and prepared to attack. Raiden had still not gotten up, and a flash of something unpleasant- disappointment? -flickered through Sam's mind.

"You're right," Raiden finally muttered. "About me, I mean."

Monsoon paused, lowering his weapons, apparently more interested in winning the battle of ideologies than commencing the battle itself. Samuel's grip loosened slightly, and only then did he notice that he had been ready to unsheathe his sword, though for what purpose he could not imagine. Blinking, his gaze flickered from the exposed centimeter of the HF blade to Raiden, who was still speaking.

"... But who am I kidding?" Raiden growled, clenching his clawed hand into a fist and sending cracks along the tiled ground beneath him. His voice betrayed a savage desire, and it rose steadily in volume as he continued, "I Was born to kill."

Folding his arms before his chest, Samuel shifted his stance and narrowed his eyes at Raiden, yet still refrained from commenting. It had been obvious from the start that Raiden was so deep in his denial that it was almost pitiful; that was part of the whole reason Sam had found it worthwhile to watch him from afar, to set up their encounter with such detailed planning. Interruptions aside, the delivery had been perfect; it had shaken Raiden on a primal level and left him physically and emotionally crippled- a common prerequisite to self-discovery. As rainwater pooled in the dented earth and Raiden stared down unflinchingly at his flawed, rippling reflection, Sam found it strangely dissatisfying that Raiden had come to accept himself through Monsoon's esoteric words, and not by the searing edge of his crimson katana.

Uneasily, Raiden pushed himself up from the ground, though he had barely managed to stand upright before the guard nearby had dashed forward and driven his carbon-fiber blade straight through Raiden's abdomen. Artificial blood gushed from the wound, and the sight sent a surge of synthetic adrenaline through Samuel. But the excitement was a distortion of fear, an emotion he had left behind ages ago. Only the memory of it lingered at the back of his mind, but it whispered to him then, paralyzing him even though ever fiber of his body yearned to move, to do something, anything. Sam could tell it wasn't a fatal blow, but the way Raiden had stood eerily still brewed a discomfiting anxiety in him.

A sudden, harsh laugh broke through his uncomfortable thoughts. Raiden straightened himself with a deliberate slowness, causing the guard to take a few frightened steps backward, looking alarmed by Raiden's unwarranted reaction. Samuel raised his eyebrows slightly, looking only vaguely surprised. Even the smirk that had formed on Monsoon's lips had disappeared, as Raiden made a quick codec call, demanding his pain inhibitors be turned off. He doubled over with pain shortly afterwards, clutching at the hilt of the blade. It was a little unnecessary, Samuel thought, but Raiden did seem to have a fondness for theatrics. At last, with a flourish, Raiden pulled the blade out in one fluid motion, the massive spray of blood that followed a testament to his endurance.

"You've lost your mind," Monsoon murmured, sounding as if he were torn between dark amusement and dawning horror. He motioned for the guards to attack again, but it was not two seconds before the remnants of their bodies littered the floor, the razor-like precision of the cuts perfectly smooth and unfaltering.

Raiden held his sword up to them- a challenge. Bloodlust had replaced all other thoughts, and his voice was low and electrifying as he snarled, "Who's next?"

He turned the tip of the bloodied blade to Samuel, and it was then that the dark-haired cyborg realized with muted shock that he had been subconsciously planning his own demise. The part of him that longed to see Raiden wield a blade without restraint was also the part that yearned for a challenger capable of landing more than just a few lucky hits.

There wasn't a soul in the world who could redeem a self-proclaimed killer; it was the end of you, once you'd succumbed to a life of dealing death. Since avenging his father, Samuel had drifted from continent to continent, leaving destruction in his wake and watching the world with unchanging apathy. He wasn't living- he was waiting to die. But life was full of curiosities, and even for a man who'd long lost his humanity, there was still something meaningful to be found.

It was the unspoken wish of a swordsman. He, who had lived by the blade, would only ever accept death by the blade.

It was laughable- yet, it was something. If nothing else, he could have a worthy opponent; a rival, who would remember him after his passing, not in the same light as a loved one or a family member, but in the only light that mattered for a killer: as a living, breathing, human being. This wasn't about fueling a war or preserving political power; this was a pact, insinuated by a grudge and signed in blood.

A grin edged its way into his features. "I'll take this dance," Sam offered, his excitement palpable. His fingers had been edging along the trigger-release of his custom sheath, and he was more than eager for the fight to start. Swiftly striding towards the other cyborg, he met Raiden's gaze levelly, and Raiden tilted his head back ever so slightly, an encouraging taunt which only made Samuel's grin broaden.

"No, Sam. Report back to the chief." Monsoon thrust an arm out, barring Samuel from proceeding. After a short pause, he declared with a vicious smirk, "He's mine."

There were a thousand protests he could have voiced, but Samuel merely gave Monsoon a disdainful look, and reluctantly slid his katana back into its sheath with a resounding click. "You're the boss," he answered with a slight mocking lilt, which Monsoon paid no heed to.

"I've misjudged you. You are like us after all," Monsoon continued, turning to Raiden once more.

"Now you're just being nasty," Raiden growled in annoyance, and briefly glanced over to Sam. The disappointment was etched clearly on his features, and there was an unspoken 'don't you dare leave' hidden in his burning stare. Without another word, Sam turned to saunter away casually. It was unfortunate, and a little unfair, but Monsoon would be the one to meet Jack the Ripper.

But it was all right. Sam could see the thirst for violence and the promise of death that manifested itself in Raiden's sleek movements; each strike was purposeful, each motion aligned with the desire to kill. There would be another time, another opportunity, for them to have their dance. He knew it didn't need to be said but the words found their way out anyhow, inaudible over the heavy rhythm of the rain and the sharp clash of metal on metal.

"I'll be waiting."


End file.
